The Valley of Boxes
by feralandfree
Summary: At long last, here is a SEQUEL for "The coffee cup and the suitcase", following the events after Molly's decision.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: hi everyone! As requested, here is a sequel to " the coffee cup and the suitcase"! If you have not read that fic, I would encourage you to do so before moving on to this. I have not yet decided where I'm going with this one, so we will be discovering it together. I do hope you enjoy it. Reviews are very much appreciated. Thank you for reading my fics!

I don't own Sherlock, but I wish I did.

* * *

The valley of boxes

The sky had not yet decided if it wanted to clear up or shower the city with rain; Ambiguous and unpredictable, it threatened the hapless citizens with the grey threat of a storm, without giving them the satisfaction of needing the umbrellas they had been carrying around all day. How spiteful.

Molly smiled to herself.

The fickle weather suffered, as its victims, the changing of the seasons. The once vivacious summer green was now giving way to Autumn's palate of reds, browns and yellows. Bright dresses were confined to the wardrobe as scarves and coats made their season debut. It was the time for mushrooms and warm slippers, hot soups and a nice duvet over the bed, and although everyone missed the summer, there was something so comforting about the Autumn, like wearing soft and cozy pyjamas...

"Doctor Hooper…" One of the nurses coughed "I am sorry to bother you, but the corpse has arrived and Mr Hayes is waiting…"

"I'm on my way, Jenny." Molly replied calmly and made her way to the morgue.

When she walked, Hayes nodded curtly. "Doctor Hooper. The DI sent me and I have been…"

"Good afternoon, Detective Hayes." She smiled.

The young detective hesitated. "Good afternoon."

"I have examined the body for you, and it is quite clear the victim was strangled. Come and see…"

She moved in closer to the corpse and pointed at his throat.

"Do you see those small indentations in the skin around the red line? I believe they are the marks left by pearls."

The detective's brow furrowed. "Pearls? Are you saying that the murder weapon is a pearl necklace?"

"Not just any necklace." The Pathologist shook her head "A normal one would have broken under so much pressure, the thread would have snapped. The fact that it didn't means that the thread isn't an ordinary one. It could be that this necklace was made with the intention of using it as a discreet and inconspicuous weapon."

"Are you sure of this?"

Molly shrugged slightly. "It's my opinion, but I'm not Sherlock!"

The detective nodded. "We will have to try and inspect the jewelry of those present to the ambassador's party… Thank you, Doctor Hooper."

"My pleasure."

Hayes walked to the door, paused, and turned around.

"Could I…I was wondering if maybe you'd like a cup of coffe… Or something…"

Molly hesitated. Hayes was a good guy, albeit impatient and occasionally reckless. A fairly attractive man, he occasionally came for help on a case, under Lestrade's recommendation, and everyone spoke highly of him.

But then she remembered her past experiences with office romances…

"Thank you, Hayes, but I'm swamped right now. Maybe some other time."

The detective nodded and walked away, whilst Molly returned to her work.

It was interesting: Once she would have stammered and stuttered at the invitation, but compared to Sherlock everyone else just seemed less…Intimidating.

At 7 pm she left the hospital and took the short walk to her flat, pulling her scarf closed to her throat as the autumn wind played with the strands of hair that escaped from under the hat her mother had made her. She opened the door, hung her coat and placed the still perfectly dry umbrella in its corner, before making herself a cup of tea.

Holding the comforting drink in her hands, she sat by the window.

"Ah, so you've made up your mind." She muttered softly to the sky as the rain finally began to fall on the busy streets of Manchester.


	2. Chapter 2

Byt the next day, the sky had cleared. It was sunny and fairy warm for the season...Summer's lingering memory in the heart of Autumn.

The office was a good size, with huge windows overlooking the hospital's garden. Two picture frames were on her desk, next to the computer. One was of herself with her mum holding Toby, the photo was taken the day she had adopted her cat from the ASPCA.

The young Director of Pathology looked out of the window. A little girl was sitting in a wheelchair by the fountain, looking at a couple of sparrows taking a bath. Sally, that was her name. She came in with a broken foot she got from a fall playing volley ball, she would be going home tomorrow. Molly often would spend her break in pediatrics', helping out, chatting or reading a story to the children. It cheered them up and helped her, too. She enjoyed spending time with them.

Her eyes fell on Sally's parents. They were standing behind their daughter, looking lovingly at her as she admired the sparrows. Then the father put his arm around the mother and rested his hand on her shoulder, pulling her slightly closer to him; her own arms circled his waist in instinctive response. Molly turned away and got back to work.

The phone rang.

"Doctor Hooper speaking."

"Hello Doctor Hooper!"

"Doctor Paten, what a pleasant surprise!" Molly smiled warmly at her old boss.

"I just wanted to let you know that I will be on my way to Manchester tomorrow in order to discuss something with Doctor Hoffe, so I thought I would like to pop over and say hello, if you're not too busy."

"Oh no, not at all. I look forward it...I hope everything is going well at Barts, Doctor."

"We can't complain: your new replacement is competent and Tom is helping out. Of course it isn't quite the same without you here, your absence is...felt."

There was an awkward silence. He wouldn't say more, nor could she ask.

"Well, thank you for calling, Doctor, but I really need to get back to work."

"Right you are, Molly. I have a meeting with the board now. Oh I miss meeting patients!" He laughed good-naturedly.

When Molly put the phone back down again, her eyes avoided the picture frames as they fixed blindly on the computer screen. Eventually her fingers began to move again, and nothing could be heard but the quiet tapping at the keyboards and the laughter of a family outside.

* * *

"I need a liver."

Sherlock affirmed simply, glaring at the new pathologist.

"I can't give you any good ones, those have all been donated." Judy shook her head. "I do have a diseased one though. The previous owner donated his body to the hospital, so I guess it's all right if you take it. He had cirrhosis, would that do?"

The consulting detective looked at the replacement. He supposed some would say she was prettier than Molly, although in a bland, conventional way. She was also adequately capable as a pathologist, and she didn't try to start silly conversations, chatting annoyingly while he was trying to concentrate.

He didn't like her

Sherlock hesitated. "Fine, it will have to do."

"You can come and collect it this afternoon." The replacement smiled politely. She was so pleasant. So accommodating. So simple... His lip curled slightly.

His phone beeped as he received a message.

_Rochester Row 15 _

_Urgent. _

_L_

He put the phone back in his pocket and it beeped again.

_Now!_

_L_

Sherlock scoffed and walked out of the hospital.

Judy shrugged, expecting that behaviour. When she arrived last week, Molly had spoken to her on the phone and had warned her about him. She had told her that the best thing to do was to pick her battles: give him what he wanted if it could be given, so he would get used to her and accept her as non-threatening to his little world, but be extremely firm with rules so he would know straight from the start that she would not be a pushover.

"I hope you'll do a better job with the second part than I did!" Molly had laughed nervously. Judy didn't push the matter, she wasn't interested in gossip.

* * *

Sherlock and John reached a house in Rochester row, buzzing with police men, and found Lestrade pacing nervously near a fresh corpse.

"Tell me what you've got." Was all the DI said, gritting his teeth.

"A woman was there when he died." Sherlock muttered flatly. Lestrade didn't even bother to ask why, knowing the consultant was about to explain "His body has no evident marks on it, except for this." Sherlock pointed at the victim's chest. A small red spot in the shape of a semicircle was at the height of the sternum. "It's somebody's stiletto, pressing down. Not hard enough to kill him, but enough to leave a mark. The fact that blood flowed to it means he was still alive."

"Can you determine the cause of Death?" Lestrade asked, brow furrowed.

Sherlock simply raised the victim's eyelids, revealing the bloodshot eyes, and looked at the DI expectantly. When he didn't reply the consultant sighed in frustration.

"Suffocation or smothering." John muttered softly, understanding. "Lestrade, who was this man?"

Sherlock didn't take his eyes off the heel mark. there was something, _something_ he was missing...But what?

"That man was the newly appointed Ambassador Morwen, he was supposed to leave for the Embassy in Paris Tomorrow."Lestrade's face darkened "And he is the second Ambassador to be killed this week."

* * *

Sherlock, John and the new pathologist were in the lab, checking blood and various samples to find any other clues to help solve the case.

"No traces of sumac, either." The replacement sighed, breaking the peaceful two hours of silence.

"Well congratulations for not finding anything. How about you speak only when you have something interesting to say?" Sherlock snapped.

John looked reproachfully at his flatmate. "Thank you, Judy. I need some coffee, would you like some?" He stood, his muscles resentfully punishing him for spending too much time bent over a microscope.

"It's all right, I'll go." The replacement got up and left the room.

"You know, you really could try and make more of an effort to be polite, Sherlock." John reprimanded his friend.

"Why should I?"

"She's nothing you can complain about: she's quiet."

"Follow her example."

"Professional."

"Boring."

"She's new. Take it easy on her, ok?"

"Fine." Sherlock shrugged, indifferent to it all.

Judy came back in with a tray and three cups of coffee.

"Thank you, Doctor Nouveau." Sherlock said stiffly before taking a sip.

It was a perfect cup of coffee. Not too sweet, nice and strong...

He didn't want it anymore.

Sherlock poured the coffee down the drain, purposefully ignoring a small, brown mug, left by the sink, slowly gathering dust.

"Actually, I'd rather have some tea." He muttered.

* * *

Author's note:

Hi everyone. I am very busy at work these days, so it is hard for me to update quickly, also because I am posting another story at the same time, so my efforts are doubled! You can thank SammyKatz if I posted today, she asked so nicely!

I hope you like this so far, I would love to know what you think!

Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

"Sherlock, I think of myself as a patient man... A kind man... A forgiving man." John spoke through gritted teeth and barely contained frustration as he walked in the room, carrying something at arm's length. "But every man has limits and you have reached mine."

"These little speeches of yours are so tedious, John." Sherlock mused, hands steepled under his chin, eyes closed as he lay on the sofa.

"Never mind tedious, Sherlock: what the HELL is this tray full of toenail clippings doing under my bed?"

"Fingernails."

"What difference does it make? They're NAILS, and they were under my bed!"

"It makes a lot of difference." Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up, clearly disgruntled by the rude interruption.

"I have exposed those clippings to various chemicals and external factors, to study the subsequent coloration and bear my discoveries in mind when studying people. As it is considerably more common to see a stranger's fingernails than it is to have a clear view of their toes, the natural conclusion is to start with fingernails and eventually move on to toenails later on."

"under my bed, Sherlock" John growled. "why were they UNDER MY BED?"

Sherlock blinked, surprised at such a silly question. Maybe John was already half asleep.

"Because the kitchen is no place for other people's fingernail clippings, John."

"Well then why not in your room?"

"Don't be ridiculous, that's revolting!"

"I am not keeping these things in..." They were interrupted by a knock on the door. With a sigh John went to open it and Lestrade strode into the room, fists clenched.

"Sherlock, I have no idea why you decided to refuse the case, but..."

"I'm not doing it." Sherlock closed his eyes and lay back down on the sofa.

"Sherlock."

"Go away, Lestrade. I am not interested."

"But it could be a serial killer, you love serial killer cases!"

"It _is_ a serial killer, and you will take the case, Sherlock, without any tantrums, please." Mycroft stated calmly as he walked in. Lestrade took a step back in surprise, previously unaware of his presence. Sherlock kept his eyes shut and turned his back on them all, for good measure.

"Take the case, Sherlock. Two Ambassadors have been killed, we both know more will die if you do not help."

"Get your agents on it."

"They are, but your name has been mentioned by the news and...People feel safer if they know you are involved. We would rather the public continue to feel safe right now."

"I'm sure they'll cope."

"Sherlock, don't make me force you into this."

"As if you could force me to do anything, Mycroft."

"The scaffolding incident."

There was a tense pause. Sherlock opened his eyes and the two brothers glared at each other. John and Lestrade exchanged a glance, brows raised.

A moment later Sherlock jumped to his feet, strode out of the room and slammed the door behind him.

"Well, now that the matter is settled, I really must be off. Good night, John. Detective Inspector." Mycroft nodded, smiling slightly as he walked away.

Lestrade pondered for a moment. He turned to John, he opened his mouth to say something when suddenly he did a double-take and shut it again.

"John...Are those toenails?"

* * *

The bed was warm, comforting protection from the slight chill of the outside world.

The victim slept soundly, blissfully unaware of the predator as it silently pushed the bedroom door open.

With the stealth possessed only by those masters who need it to survive, he crept to the bed where she slumbered. The duvet puffed softly as he leaned over to admire the face of his prey.

Upon reaching his victim, he began to purr loudly, curling up in a ball under his prey's chin.

A hand lazily slid out from under the duvet and scratched the cat's head.

"Good morning, Toby." Molly murmured groggily.

"Meow." The feline languidly stretched, fully expecting a few minutes of morning cuddles before breakfast.

Molly checked the clock: Toby had woken her only fifteen minutes early today, that wasn't too bad. She nestled her face in his soft fur and rubbed his chin before reaching for her nightgown and getting out of bed.

The apartment was a bit small compared to the one she had in London, but it was the best she could find on such short notice. Not that she needed a lot of space, really, being on her own and everything...

She walked barefoot to the bathroom and had a shower; Toby stayed with her untill she started singing Dolly Parton "nine to five", at which point he deemed it best to leave. Once clean, dry and dressed, she went to the kitchen to make breakfast.

Molly put the kettle on, served his highness his meal, and turned on the radio. She sat down to a bowl of porridge with coconut sugar and poured the tea into her new, rather garish yellow mug... It was a pretty ugly thing, but there hadn't been anything better at the supermarket.

"...Although the police investigation is underway. The newly appointed Ambassador was killed yesterday afternoon..."

"No, he was murdered on Wednesday." Molly answered automatically.

"...and his body was found in Rochester Row, London."

"What?" Molly head snapped as she turned to stare at the small radio on the kitchen counter.

"..Making this the second murder of a British Ambassador in 2 days, the first being Ambassador Talen in Manchester, last Wednesday. Is this an exceptional coincidence, or are these the first attacks of a serial killer who targets diplomats? The police currently refuse to comment, however we have on good authority that the famous consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, is on the case and will be flying to..."

The radio was swiftly turned off, and the tea was put back down on the table by unsteady, quivering hands.

* * *

.


	4. Chapter 4

_Oh God, make-up._

Her palette lay before her, displayed on the dresser, and she bit her lip.

Molly had grown accustomed to getting ready in the morning without agonizing over everything, but now all her old doubts and insecurities flooded back. Thankfully she had already gotten dressed before she realised he could be on his way, otherwise she might have been late to work!

She stared dejectedly at herself in the mirror, but then she forced herself to follow the plan: to pretend she didn't know he was on the case. to not do anything different...It was just a normal day at work...

Yes, that made it easier.

She picked up the colours she usually used in the morning, making sure not to apply anything more than her average, everyday make-up.

Molly inspected herself in the mirror...She could really use some eyeliner...No! She didn't have time in the mornings for eyeliner.

And her hand would be too shaky, anyway! The line would be uneven.

And he would notice.

Molly put on her coat and walked out of the apartment. As she tried to lock the front door, she found it hard to slip the key in the keyhole.

"Come on, get a _grip_, girl!" She muttered to herself impatiently.

Besides, he might never come.

* * *

"Taxi!" John called for the umpteenth time.

"Bloody London fashion week!" Sherlock muttered grumpily, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Well, it has been hard to get a taxi." John mused "But it isn't _all_ bad." he added as a small Group of stunning models walked by.

John followed them with his eyes for a moment, then turned to his flatmate with a boyish grin, searching for some camaraderie.

He found none.

Sherlock looked at John reproachfully, turned away and pulled his coat closer to him. John sighed.

The doctor never knew what transpired between Molly and his friend. All of a sudden things became strange between them. Hoping to help, John had feigned a cough to leave them alone together. Later that afternoon Sherlock had come home in a foul mood, slammed the bedroom door, smashed something and did not come out or speak to anyone for the rest of the day. The next morning John had tried to bring him some tea, but his friend had left during the night.

Sherlock came back a few days later, but they never spoke of what happened.

Things became awkward at the hospital, Sherlock would always avoid going. Then one day there was a little party. Sherlock refused to go, and Molly seemed relieved he didn't show up. The next day she was gone.

John sometimes wondered if it would have been better to not start coughing that day...

Shaking his head, he finally managed to get a taxi.

* * *

3pm.

Molly tapped her fingers nervously on her desk. Concentrating on work seemed a Herculean task, one she was failing miserably.

With a slight moan of frustration she crossed her arms on the computer and let her chinhead drop on them. Eventually she lifted it enough to look at the picture frames.

Maybe they needed a pathologist at the north pole?

No, too cold.

The Caribbean? Yes!

She'd open a nice little practice on some obscure Caribbean island where he would never show up unexpectedly. She'd have a nice tan and go swimming every day! Molly began to plan getting a passport for Toby when she heard a familiar voice.

"Hello, Molly."

"Doctor Paten!" She jumped to her feet as the elderly doctor walked into the room with a smile. Molly's eyes darted behind him to check...He was alone.

So, Sherlock hadn't come after all.

She breathed a sigh of...relief?

Yes?...Yes. It had to be relief.

It was relief.

Definitely relief.

"So, how have you been?" He asked amicably, sitting down on the chair in front of her desk. "Is Doctor Hoffe treating you well?"

"I've been very well, everyone has been very welcoming." Molly nodded sincerely. "I actually wanted to thank you, doctor Paten, for allowing me to come here earlier than..."

"Don't you worry about that, dear." He smiled. "You had become unhappy, and the doctor you recommended is doing a splendid job..."

They chatted for a few minutes, then he checked his watch.

"I have to leave you now, dear, I have a meeting with doctor Hoffe..." He stood.

"Doctor Paten..." Molly hesitated "Did you fly over alone?" She ventured.

"Yes, I did." He replied, shrugging.

Molly nodded quietly in response. The doctor started walking to the door.

"I had booked my ticket weeks ago. There was no room for Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson, they had to catch the next flight. Bye!" He added cheerfully as he walked out of the room, leaving behind a frozen doctor.

"Doctor Hooper?" Jane knocked at the door. " Inspector Hayes called. He's coming with Sherlock Holmes to inspect the body of the ambassador in a few minutes and..."

A quiet little island, somewhere in the Caribbean. That would be nice.

* * *

"Good afternoon, gentlemen." Jane smiled politely as inspector Hayes, John and Sherlock walked into the morgue. "I am doctor Merryweather. You must be the famous Sherlock Holmes." She extended her hand but the consulting detective just stared at her with his brow furrowed.

"I'm John." His friend stepped in politely. "I'm sorry if we seem surprised, but we rather hoped to see Doctor Hooper..."

"Oh yes, well..." Jane started to explain when Sherlock passed by her to the corpse on the table.

"The Ambassador had just recently returned from Austria, and was murdered in his home, correct?" He asked without taking his eyes off the body.

"Uhm, yes." the Young doctor nodded. "Doctor Hooper left the chart there, if you wish to see it."

Sherlock poked and prodded the body a while longer, then picked up the documents that were left on the table.

"Where are her hand-written ones?"

"Pardon?"

"Her notes! Her personal notes! Molly Always writes an official document for the hospital, and keeps a little booklet with her personal comments, conjectures, opinions and terrible deductions. Where is it?"

"If the deductions are terrible, why do you want it?" Hayes asked, puzzled.

"She had the advantage of time. This man was killed on Wednesday, three days make a lot of difference. Now where is that notebook?" He demanded, glaring at the now flustered and clearly incompetent excuse for a path...

"Here it is."

Sherlock turned around.

Molly was standing at the door, the notebook in her hand.

"Hello, Sherlock."


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock walked up to Molly, his eyes boring into her, taking everything in. Without saying a word, he got the notebook from her hand and began to read it, walking away, turning his back to her.

"Molly! It's great to see you again." John embraced her and she hugged him back, grinning.

"Hi, John. How have you been? How did things work out with Susan?"

"Who? Oh... Yes, Susan..."

They began to chat noisily, all three of them joking instead of thinking about the case, with John telling Hayes about her time at Bart's, and that inspector standing very close to the pathologist...

Molly laughed.

Sherlock focused on the notebook, scribbled in her tidy, rounded handwriting.

He shook his head.

Most of the annotations were the same as on the chart...

Seriously, were those letters, or gummibears?

...Only a couple of extra notes were worth any interest:

_Perfume, jasmine. Or was it just Jane?_

_Reinforced pearl necklace? Beads?_

_Female killer?_

Jane's perfume didn't have jasmine, it was ylang ylang.

"You're wrong, you know." Sherlock interrupted the three.

For a moment she froze, remembering when he had said those same words to her.

She wondered if he had completely forgotten.

Molly hesitated, feeling vulnerable.

She should not have given him the notebook, it probably all seemed very silly to him: puerile, mediocre thoughts of a simple mind.

"What am I wrong about, this time?"

Sherlock didn't look at her.

"It wasn't a pearl necklace."

"Oh."

The consulting detective pointed at the victim's throat.

"The slight irregularity on the skin means they are not man-made beads, they are indeed pearls. However, if the string is strong enough to strangle a man, it would make a necklace look much too stiff to be worn fashionably. There is also a slight curve in some parts, which means the string is usually in a spiral. This weapon is worn as a bracelet."

"So you believe the killer is a woman?"

Sherlock hesitated, then nodded. "A strong one, who is also taller than the victim. The marking goes up at the back of the neck. She should be about 5.9 feet tall. Right-handed."

Hayes listened carefully. It wasn't much to go on, but it was better than what they had before.

"Well, at least that gives us a little more to work on. Thank you for your time and assistance, Doctor Hooper." He winked at her. Molly smiled back.

Sherlock walked out of the morgue.

"OK, well I guess we're going back to London. It was really good to see you again, Molly." John gave her a quick hug. "We miss you at Barts. We all do." He stepped back. "But Manchester suits you, you look great."

"Come along, John." Sherlock called impatiently from outside.

John shook his head in mild irritation.  
"Bye, Molly."

The doctor left the room, and Hayes stood beside the pathologist.

"Friendly chap, that Sherlock." he muttered, bemused.

Molly picked up the notebook Sherlock had left on the table. She attempted a smile and turned to the inspector.

"He might grow on you."

* * *

"That was rude, Sherlock."

The two walked out of the hospital.

"You could at least have said goodbye."

John had to quicken his pace to keep up. All right, this wasn't working. John sighed.

"I didn't know she kept a notebook like that."

"She began about six months after she started working at Bart's." Sherlock replied, without slowing down.

It was a foolish attempt at imitation, a ridiculous, pointless endeavour.

But she never stopped writing.

John took a sidelong glance at his friend. "Did you ever read it when she was in London?"

"No." Sherlock said flatly, pulling up his collar.

John smiled.

"I must say, she looks great. Is it her hair? I don't know what it is, but..."

"Sleep."

"Sorry?"

"Her skin and eyes are brighter, a sign of being well rested, nothing more."

Molly didn't have to work 'till late, any more. She wasn't forced to stay in the hospital for hours after everyone else had left. In Manchester, she had a regular schedule that nobody disrupted constantly, without even asking... Molly was sleeping more, and better.

Sherlock hastened his pace.

Maybe they could get an earlier flight home.

.

* * *

.

"Excellence, pardonnez-moi pour l'interruption, mais on vous attend pour le toast. Avez-vous..."

The secretary froze in horror as her eyes focused on the desk. The only thing visible from behind it was the ambassador's hand. limp and lifeless on the carpet.

"Au secours! " She cried "Monsieur l'Ambassadeur a perdu connaissance!"

As the guards ran to the office and the ambulance was called, she crouched beside him.

"Mon Dieu, je pense qu'il soit mort..."

Nothing could be done, his life was spent.

That night, the ambulance siren echoed emptily in the streets of Paris.

* * *

.

Author's note:

Hi everyone! After so many requests to "update soon", I tried my best to deliver something as quickly as possible: I therefore thought it better to give you a short chapter now than a longer one later. I hope you liked it.

As always, reviews are highly appreciated.

Thank you for reading!

Feral


	6. Chapter 6

Author's note: Hi everyone!

Sorry for the wait, but I have finally finished a hectic script-writing period at work, hurray! *Does little happy dance*

So now I have a lot more time to continue with this story. Those who have read my other fics might notice a little link if they're perspicacious, I wonder if anyone will spot it.

Again, please forgive me for the delay, I will try to resume a more regular pace.

I own Sherlock as much as an ostrich owns the sky: in longing only.

Have a great day, thanks for reading!

Feralandfree

.

* * *

.

"Sherlock, it's been 6 hours straight. Could you please stop?" John begged wearily, rubbing his forehead while his roommate played his violin, as he had been doing ever since they had returned home.

"I'm waiting." Sherlock stated simply.

Was it John's impression, or was the violin playing even louder, now?

"Waiting for what? You know, I don't even care! Play as much as you like, I'm getting out of here." John cried in exasperation, grabbing his coat and keys before striding to the door.

"While you're out, get some tea; There's none in the tin."

John had already left.

Sherlock lowered his violin and looked at the cords.

His fingers hurt.

.

* * *

.

"Hello?"

"Doctor Hooper..."

"Mr Holmes, we've already discussed this. I am sure there are many doctors who are far more qualified for this than I am!"

"You have cooperated with Sherlock in the past, with excellent results. Not many of your peers can claim the same..."

"Maybe, but that is in the past. I'm sure Sherlock would agree, things have changed."

"Doctor Hooper, I have found your presence to be...A good influence for my brother. I am confident your assistance would be most beneficial..."

"Does Sherlock know you contacted me?"

"Doctor..."

"I bet he told you not to; am I right?"

"Sherlock doesn't always know what's bes..."

"Good day, Mr Holmes. I'm very sorry. Good luck."

.

* * *

.

"For Pete's sake! You're still playing?" John cried out.

He had spent hours away from the flat, hoping his friend would tire of that blasted violin, but when he had come home that stubborn idiot was still playing. In desperation, John had resorted to heavy-duty earplugs and a pillow over his ears. Now, still in his pyjamas, he stared in amazed frustration at his friend.

"I played slower music during the night, you should be grateful."

"You need to eat."

"I'm not hungry"

"Sherlock. Please. Stop. "

"I told you, I'm waiting."

"Fine. I give up. " The Doctor sighed, sitting down on the sofa. " What are you waiting for?"

Sherlock smiled slightly. "The next victim. This is a serial killer, and she hasn't finished yet."

The Consulting detective's phone began to ring. John picked it up and looked at the screen.

"It's your brother."

Sherlock stopped playing and ran to his flatmate, grinning.

John started, brow raised. He didn't usually grin when Mycroft was calling...

"Another one?" Sherlock said as he answered. "Good. Where? What? Fine, but you're paying. First class, of course. No, not her. Not her, Mycroft! I mean it. An hour."

John stared questioningly at his flatmate as he hung up.

"What was that about? Was another ambassador killed?"

"Yes."

"Ok, let's go!" John shrugged, turning to the door. He was very tired and would rather have liked to go to bed, but...

"You'll need to pack."

"What? Why?"

Sherlock walked to his room as he replied "The Ambassador was killed in France."

* * *

Shortly after, Sherlock and John walked out of the flat to find a black car waiting for them.

The driver opened the door for them, and a voice came from inside the vehicle.

"Allow me to give you a lift, little brother."

The two men sat down in front of Mycroft and the car took off.

"Gentlemen, as the murders have become international, the situation is more , the French have consented to allow a British doctor of our choice to inspect the corpse. Your plane leaves in thirty minutes. I believe the doctor will be waiting for you at the gate. "

Sherlock and Mycroft's eyes met, and held each other's gaze for a moment. Then the younger brother leaned back, looking out of the car window.

" You will liason with agent Bonlieu, he will pick you up at the airport and take you to the hospital Hôtel-Dieu, where the body is. "

Mycroft leaned in.

"Sherlock, John...I cannot guarantee your protection in Paris. As it was an Ambassador who was killed, we're not only facing the French Police, but also the DST, DCRI and the DPSD as well."

John nodded, as if he knew what those abbreviations meant.

"This could cause serious political repercussions...The British and French governments will be walking a tightrope, we cannot appear to be overstepping, so please be discreet..And careful."

As the two men left the car and walked to the airport, Mycroft dialed a number on his phone.

"_Ils sont en train de partir. Garde-les. Bonne chance."_

With that, he hung up.

"Take me to the club, Hobbes." He commanded quietly.

The car drove off, heading east, to London and the rising sun.

.

* * *

.

The airport was as busy as ever, brimming with people coming and going, welcoming and bidding farewell.

Within the crowd, individuals gave way to a dark-haired man with a stern, determined expression, followed by a cheerful, smiling bloke.

"So, do you think there is only one killer, or is it a band of assassins or something?" John inquired.

Sherlock shook his head. "I'll know when I see the body." He replied, narrowly escaping contact with a toddler, one grubby-ice-cream-and-crayons hand gripping his mother's skirt, the other grubby-ice-cream-and-snot hand reaching out in front of him as he hobbled along.

His flatmate panted slightly and smiled at the endearing child. Sherlock strode forward, and John almost had to jog to keep up.

"We're on time, you know, there's no need to run, Sherlock."

The consulting detective did not slow down, but kept marching to the gate, pulling up his collar and runningg a hand in his hair.

"Who do you think the doctor will be? One of Mycroft's chaps, perhaps?"

Had Sherlock just started walking faster?

"No. He is trying to be discreet, remember? The doctor has to be a common civilian."

Finally the gate was within view. Sherlock's eyes scanned the area briefly.

He suddenly slowed down, and breathed out.

John breathed a small sigh of relief and looked up. Waving at them from the gate was Doctor Paten.

Of course, John mused, he was a sensible choice. He was an experienced, skilled doctor, known and well-respected abroad, thanks to lectures and papers written over the years. Doctor Paten also knew Sherlock well, but had never reacted to the young consulting detective with anything other than good-natured acceptance.

The two men reached the elderly doctor.

"Hello, gentlemen. Allons-y, and all that, right?" he smiled.

"Good Morning, Doctor Paten." John nodded back. " It's good to have you with us!"

Sherlock didn't say anything.

Doctor Paten excused himself, pulling out his phone to make a call before the flight.

The two friends stood at the gate, waiting to board, and John grinned at his flatmate as he cried out:

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are going to Paris!"

"Was that quite necessary, John?"

"No, not at all. But it had to be done."


	7. Chapter 7

Molly shakily put the phone down.

It was the right thing to do.

Wasn't it?

Of course. Of course it was.

She breathed out softly and leaned against the wall of her bedroom, closing her eyes.

That phone call had unsettled her.

Molly felt something against her ankles and looked down to see Toby rubbing his sides against her.

Right. Breakfast.

After feeding the cat, she made herself a cup of tea and got ready for work.

When is the plane leaving?

Will he be careful?

Will he be safe?

She shook her head and walked out the door.

"I mean, what would have happened had I gone?" She muttered to herself. A passer-by looked at her, startled, for a moment thinking she was talking to him.

Molly, oblivious, kept walking.

Had she shown up, he probably would have refused to go. He would have been annoyed. She had seen it in the hospital yesterday...

Sherlock was angry with her.

Molly pulled her hat down lower over her ears.

Angry with _her,_ for crying out loud! With what right? She should be the one to be angry!

_Boxes. Think of the boxes..._Doctor Paten's story had really helped her realise she needed to stop wasting her life waiting for the impossible. She had to live as much as she could so she would not have any regrets.

...But what if he really needed her help?

No, she would have helped Sherlock and followed him everywhere, to the ends of the earth, had he really needed her. But he didn't. Their encounter in Manchester helped her understand that now.

He didn't want her. He didn't need her.

He didn't.

_"I don't think I can cope without you..."_

Molly put her head in her hands.

_Lies! _They were just lies, she told herself, over and over again. Lies to make her stay and keep his little world unchanged. Lies, because he always lied, he always used her.

When she came to Manchester, she really believed she had done with Sherlock...Then he had come to her hospital, and she thought she coped really well, but she couldn't deny that something had changed between them.

Something was...Broken.

She pulled her coat close to her as she made her way to the hospital. The morning chill felt like it was seeping into her very soul.

She had done the right thing.

Hadn't she?

Of course.

Of course she had.

.

* * *

.

Ten minutes after take-off, John was already asleep.

He might have said it was Sherlock's fault for playing the violin for so long, but his flatmate still thought it rather unbecoming.

"Tell me, Sherlock, have you ever been to Paris?" Doctor Paten asked, looking up from his book.

The consulting detective nodded.

He had hoped the conversation would end there, but Molly's mentor didn't desist.

"I am very fond of that city, it's where I met my wife."

Sherlock nodded again and fixed his eyes on the book in his hands.

"We're divorced, now. We always said it was a mutual decision, but I think it's really my fault."

Sherlock didn't respond.

"I worked too much and neglected her, you see... But I've been making an effort. I've been going to see her regularly now. Hope springs eternal, and all that."

The consulting detective looked at the doctor for a moment, scanning his face.

Was he really not related to Molly? Really?

"Let me tell you a story, Young chap."

35,000 feet.

520 miles per hour...

"It's an old favourite of mine... I even told it to Molly, before she left for Manchester."

Sherlock closed the book.

"It seems I don't have much choice."

Doctor Paten smiled.

"One day, a middle-aged man died in an accident. A spirit greets him and leads him on his journey to the afterlife.

Along the way, the two ghosts look upon a great valley, full of boxes.

'What are these?' the man asks.

'These are the boxes containing all the moments you could have lived, the experiences that had been offered to you. As you did not accept them, they remain here, unopened, in this valley.'

The man's curiosity was peaked, and he begged to look into the boxes.

'It is a bad idea to do so, you would regret it...' the spirit cautioned, but the man did not heed the warning and implored the ghost to let him see the contents.

Finally, the spirit conceded. 'You may open only three, but remember: you cannot take any with you.'

Delighted, the man ran into the valley and opened the first box.

It was a trip across Europe. Just after university, some friends had planned to travel around the various European states by car. No planning ahead, simply going with the flow. The man had always talked about it with them enthusiastically, but when the time came, he didn't go, saying it was immature and risky.

In the box he saw what would have happened if he had gone:

He would have had his camera stolen in Naples, terrible diarrhoea in Finland because of some weird fish speciality he wouldn't be able to pronounce, and he would have slept in the car for two nights in a row because they didn't find a hotel room in France...

He would also have run out of money on the last week and earned cash by playing the guitar and singing with his friends, he would have learned to scuba dive and been brought close to tears by seeing a sea turtle up close, swimming gracefully alongside him. He would have become a more relaxed employer later in life, and he would not have grown apart from those cherished friends...

Frowning slightly, he opened the second box.

Inside, he saw himself with an old dog, and he remembered when he was a child, and his family had gotten a puppy for Christmas. As the boy didn't take care of the animal and neglected it, the parents had given it up for adoption to a more caring family. In the box he could see that if he had been a caring owner, his dog would have been his closest companion. He saw that he would not have felt so alone in high school, and the animal would have defended him against that nasty kid...He would also have made friends with a cheerful boy who went running with his Dobermann in the park...Finally, he could see the dog dying, and witnessed himself weeping, a wiser, kinder young man.

Remorseful, he opened the third box:

In that he saw that time he stood up a girl because his friends had teased him about it. He would have fallen in love with her. The man never married, because he always thought he hadn't met the right woman yet, but he had. He simply stood her up.

'It is time to move on.' The spirit called.

'Please, let me keep them.' The man cried, anguished, on his knees.

'I am sorry...'

' This one, then. Just this one...' he begged, clutching one of the boxes to his chest. "Just this one.'

The spirit could not grant his wish, because his life was done, and the two spirits left the boxes behind and walked to the afterlife together."

Doctor Paten leaned back, satisfied of having told his tale.

Sherlock glared at him slightly.

"Sentimental tripe." He shook his head.

"Maybe." Paten nodded. "But it makes me want to make sure I leave as few boxes behind as I can."

The elderly doctor looked into Sherlock's eyes.

"That's why I am seeing my ex wife as often as I can. I saw to win her back, and I'm taking it.." He grinned "...And I'm winning."

He leaned in closer.

"People often say we don't know what we have untill it's lost. They seldom remember that sometimes, if we look hard enough, we might find it again.

Only Death is final, Sherlock. Everything else is up to us."

He winked at the consulting detective, who turned his eyes away to look silently out of the window.

"I'll leave you alone now. Thank you for indulging a silly old man."

Sherlock eyes flicked for a moment to the doctor before returning to the window. He nodded.

They spent the rest of the flight in silence.

.

* * *

.

"I'm sorry, Miss, but there is no room, all the seats have been booked..."

"Fine!" Molly cried out in exasperation "When is the first available flight, then?"

The lady typed on the computer.

"There is one flight at nine, you would land at ten thirty, so..."

"I'll take it."

.

* * *

Author's note:

THE NEXT CHAPTER CONTINUES WITH THE CASE, I PROMISE! LOTS OF CASE COMING UP!

Although I really wanted to carry on with the case in this chapter, I must admit...It kind of ran away with me! I actually had a VERY different thing planned for Molly, but it just couldn't seem to end up on the screen. Go figure. I do hope I didn't bore you with this chapter, I just couldn't seem to control it!

I had seriously thought of continuing untill I got you to the next bit of info in the case, but the chapter was becoming a bit too long so...Sorry! I will try to have the next chapter out this week if not tomorrow. Sorry Mrspencil!

A small note on the boxes story: it is loosely based on a newspaper article I was once told about, many years ago, by a brilliant teacher.

I really hope you didn't get bored! Please let me know what you think...

Thanks for reading!

Feral


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock, John and Doctor Paten had landed safely and met with agent Bonlieu, a short, dark man in his late forties, at the airport. The agent had then made a couple of quick phone calls before turning back to the three men.

"Doctor Paten, the body is being kept at the Hôtel-Dieu. Would you like to go there immediately, or join Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson at the crime scene?"

"I'd rather make myself useful right away." Doctor Paten smiled. "I'm far too clumsy and cumbersome to be anything more than a burden at a crime scene..Get me to that corpse, I can't do damage there." He winked good-naturedly. The three men were separated as John and Sherlock went with Banlieu to the crime scene, which happened to be the Ambassador's bedroom in a luscious builing near the champs E'lysées.

Agent Banlieu spoke a moment to the Géndarmes, who didn't seem at all pleased at the intrusion. After a few loud words, they were allowed inside.

"You can come in. They saw no sings of a struggle. The ambassador was found dead, behind his desk, by his secretary. When he didn't show up for an event, she came looking for him."

The consulting detective looked around the study.

Sherlock moved to the bedroom, looked around, opened a few shelves and eyed the bathroom before presenting his first impressions.

"The Ambassador had a fight, with his wife, that was bad enough for her to go away for a while, but negligible enough for it to merely be a temporary separation..."

"The wife is indeed away." Agent Banlieu nodded "But she left to take care of her mother who..."

"Nope, it was a quarrel with him."

"How do you know?"

With an exasperated sigh, the consulting detective pointed out the obvious.

"The wardrobe is divided in half, his and hers. The wife's clothes, however, are quite few : a pair of tailleurs, one coat... Also a couple of drawers have been completely emptied while others are still cpmpletely wife left the shoes and creams here, too." Sherlock glanced expectantly at John, who frowned slightly.

"She left the shoes behind?"

"Good to know you've learnt something from all those women, John."

"Would you kindly explain what you're talking about?" Banlieu interrupted. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

" If a woman is serious about leaving and is not in immediate danger, she will pack carefully. If she only has a limited amount of things she can take with her, so she will choose clothes and shoes of the current season. A woman over thirty would also get her face cream... the fact that there is no logic or order in what has been taken means that it was more of a display. The wife gave a show of grabbing armfuls from the wardrobe and emptying entire drawers into the suitcase, to make a point. She will return once he has apologised enough...But this has nothing to do with the case beyind the fact that it gave the ambassador a chance to cheat on her."

Sherlock pointed at the victim's part of the wardrobe.

"The Ambassador's wardrobe is a mess. His clothes are all jumbled and his underwear is old and worn. He would keep clothes in piles..."

"Sounds familiar." John muttered under his breath.

"But his bedside table is unusually tidy." Sherlock opened the little drawer by the bed. "He literally pushed everything from the top into here, to make the room look in order. A maid would never do something like that...He didn't want any servants to see his guest, so he excused them and tried to tidy up at the last minute." Sherlock eyed the bed and reached under the pillow on the left side. Sure enough, some condoms had been kept there for quick and easy retrieval.

"He was planning to meet a prospective mistress, taking advantage of her absence ...The ambassador opened the door for his killer. Together they went to the study, where he was subsequently killed."

"So the killer is a woman?" Banlieu asked.

"Only one way to find out." Sherlock replied. "I need to see the body."

.

* * *

.

Doctor Paten welcomed them at the hospital.

"It's a good thing I came." He whispered softly. "They were none too happy of having an English doctor inspecting the body, it seemed to imply they were not worthy of the job."

Banlieu nodded. Apparently, he had thought the same thing.

The four men walked into the morgue, where Paten pointed at the body's throat.

"The Ambassador was strangled. The marks on his neck look like the ones in the pictures of the other victim..."

John nodded "A string of pearls...But they go up higher at the back than the others did, so the killer was taller this time. Could this be a band of assassins using pearls as a trademark weapon?" He mused.

Sherlock croched to see the bruises better, and shook his head.

"The Ambassador was sitting down when he got strangled. The pearls would be held differently, with the arms lowered. Keeping that in mind, our killer is the same height as in the other muder. It's also the very same weapon: real, wild pearls are unique, and the bruises here have the exact pattern as on the other ambassador. It's the same killer using the same bracelet."

Sherlock stood up. "Where are the ambassador's personal items?"

.

* * *

.

_What am I doing?_

The Hôtel-Dieu is the oldest hosptial in Paris. On the Île de la Cité, one of the small natural islands on the Seine, it's strong, majestic architecture stands proudly in Notre Dame square, next to the famous cathedral.

Even after midnight, people are found strolling along, chatting or sharing a quiet moment. Some tourists, enjoying Paris by night, can be seen admiring the Cathedral under the glow of night lights and the warm haze of good champagne. It had just begun to drizzle, so many started heading home.

As the people passed, they might have noticed a single, solitary figure, apparently unaware of the change in the weather.

Staring at the Hôtel-Dieu, the woman stood alone, with no umbrella, under the rain.

_What am I doing?_

Molly had booked the ticket, gone to work to find someone to cover her, begged a friend to take care of Toby, taken money out, retrieved her passport and gone back to the airport to catch the flight. Without thinking, she took a taxi to the Hôtel-Dieu, and now couldn't bring herself to walk through the door.

What would he say if he saw her?

Did she really think he would welcome her with open arms? Kiss her passionately? Did she really believe there was going to be music and fireworks, that they would live happily ever after, solving crimes together and filling the house with the pitter patter of little pathologo-detectives' feet? Had she really believed she would get a fairy-tale ending like that from Sherlock? Molly suddenly felt very ashamed of herself.

She was behaving like a stalker! What kind of deranged woman follows a man -who has repeatedly rejected her, by the way- to another country whislt being perfectly aware that her presence wasn't wanted or required? If he had any respect for her, she would lose it right there and then! Just how far had she humiliated herself?

Molly shook her head, she had spared herself this last humiliation, at least. The doctor would not go through those doors to make a complete fool of herself yet again. She had reached her limit...There is only so much an individual can do, and she had done enough.

You can't force anyone to love you, anymore than you can force your own heart...

A strange kind of peace engulfed and overcame her. It was time to let go.

With a deep breath, Molly turned around and walked away.

.

* * *

.

"The ambassador thought he was going to have sex with his guest, but they had never done it before." Sherlock nodded confidently.

"As the Ambassador isn't gay, we can confirm we're looking for a woman."

Paten gazed, bemused, at the Ambassador's personal items: Clothes, underwear, his agenda and a wallet containing a picture of his wife, credit cards and some money.

"How did you discover that from these?" He wondered aloud.

"By his pants."

Banlieu, having worked in America for a few years, automatically picked up the trousers to look at them. John nudged him and pointed at the underwear.

Shelock continued. "In the Ambassador's bedroom I noticed that all his pants and socks are old and ruined, but these are brand new and have been work for the first time today. He bought them especially, something he wouldn't bother to do with an established mistress."

The consulting detective glanced out of the window. It was raining. "Where is the secretary? I want to ask..." Suddenly he froze, then bolted.

"Sherlock!" John cried out in surprise, instinctively running after his friend as he tore across the hospital.

John couldn't keep up as Sherlock flew down the stairs, narrowly avoiding collision with a couple of innocent patients.

The consulting detective ran out of the doors and into the open air, his eyes searching the square frantically.

Just moments later, John caught up with him.

"What happened, Sherlock? What did you see?"

Sherlock was standing completely still in Notre Dame square, slowly getting drenched under the now heavy rain. His eyes were blidnly fixed ahead.

"Sherlock?" John placed his hand on his friend's shoulder.

His flatmate blinked as raindrops trickled down his face.

"I thought I saw..."

Sherlock suddenly shook his head, breaking out of his reverie, and turned away.

"Nothing. There's nothing there."


End file.
